


Jackassery

by kvothbloodless



Category: Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 14:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11946045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kvothbloodless/pseuds/kvothbloodless
Summary: Sim, Wil, and Kvothe get drunk at the Eolian.





	Jackassery

With money in my purse, my tuition paid, and no gaelets to pay off, one would think I would spend less time in the Eolian, playing for tips. In fact, the opposite was true. I was able to spend less time grinding away in the Fishery, less time fretting about pulling together enough coin. And so it came to pass that the week after admissions, Sim, Wil, and I made our way to the Eolian. My purse was full of coins, curtesy of Master Hemme, and I rashly promised to buy us each a cup of metheglin. I played a few songs, enjoying the feeling of playing for the sake of playing, without worrying about the result.  
“I swear, Brandeur always asks a question from the books I didn’t read. Its uncanny.” Sim took a big sip of metheglin, and passed a card across the table. I looked at my cards, sighed, and folded.  
“You just say that because when he does ask a question you know, it goes unnoticed. Just be grateful you don’t have Lorren scrutinizing you. I might be a scriv, but I can’t be expected to remember every damn thing about the Archives.” He dealt a new hand, and I saw his eyes drop slightly when he saw his cards. I raised him, keeping it low enough to avoid him folding.  
“If anyone should complain, it’s me. Hemme goes after me like a dog after a rabbit. And Elodin always seems to ask a question that literally does not have an answer. I got off lucky with 30 talents.”  
“Oh yes, poor Kvothe. The Maer is 30 talents poorer, and you have 15 talents in your purse. And all you had to do was not study. I pity you, truly.” Wil reluctantly called my raise, and passed a card to Sim. I saw his eyes widen, and I assumed he had a good hand when he spoke up.  
“Look who just walked in.” I turned around to see who he was talking about, and saw Ambrose escorting a lady up the stairs. He didn’t seem to notice my presence, or I’m sure he would have found a way to snub me. Sim turned to me with a light in his eyes.  
“You should-”  
“No.”  
“But-”  
“I am not singing Jackass. Last time I did it, he sent someone to kill me.” Sim continued to wheedle, but I wasn’t that stupid. My life was going well, and I had no reason to create new problems.  
After the metheglin, Wil bought us a round of scutten, then Sim bought a bottle of blackberry mead, which Wil sniffed at. He still drank it, of course. By the time the bottle was empty, several dozen hands had passed, and we were approaching the far side of drunkenness. Sim’s eyes brightened, and he stood up without explanation, and began to stumble across the room.  
“Where is he goin?” I asked, attempting not to slur, and failing.  
“Who knows. Maybe the latrine.” As always, Wil seemed nearly unaffected by the alcohol, despite the fact that my head was spinning. Sim returned several minutes later, grinning like a fool, carrying a cup of scutten. Even in my drunken state, I was suspicious.  
“Drink this,” he said, shoving the cup into my hands. I reflexively took a big gulp, my throat burning.  
“Wha… what did you do?” I asked, narrowing my eyes in what I hoped was an unnerving stare.  
“You look like you have a hair in your eye,” Wil commented flatly. Sim just grinned wider, and pointed to the stage. I saw Count Threpe, tuning his instrument, a smile on his face.  
“Sim, what did you do?” I asked again, finishing off the cup. My head was spinning even harder, and I was finding it difficult to concentrate. I saw Threpe raise his bow to the instrument, and begin to play. In my drunken state, it took me a moment to recognize the song…  
“…a mule has some style, a mule has some class, ‘cuz unlike young Rosy, he’s just half an ass…” I tried to summon anger, but all I felt was amusement. I turned to look up at Ambrose, who was glaring at us with unbridled hatred. Oh well. In for a jot, in for a talent. I raised my glass to him, and joined in, shouting the chorus.  
I woke up the next morning, the pounding in my head matched by the pounding on the door. I blearily walked over, throwing on my clothes, and cracked the door open.  
Fela stood there, glaring at me.  
“You dumb shit, what did you do?!”


End file.
